


The Ceramic Mug Equation

by Moorishflower



Series: Fifty AUs [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:37:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Dean's got some sort of pottery fetish or something, but that had been his mug and Castiel had broken it. For the prompt "They work in the same office and meet when Castiel accidentally smashes Dean's mug. Castiel wants to make it up to him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ceramic Mug Equation

Dean hears the crash and tinkle of breaking ceramic and knows, immediately, that his day is about to get a thousand times shittier than it already is.

Never mind that he’s an office drone working for a company that’s renowned for treating its employees like mindless robots, and never mind that he’s been working overtime for the past week or so just so that he can get this one project done and sent to his supervisor before the dude blows a gasket, oh, and _never mind_ that his home life isn’t any more glamorous or rewarding than his job. You’d think his life couldn’t get any worse, but Dean is almost one-hundred percent certain that it’s about to.

And you know what? He’s right, because as he walks into the break room, following the source of that awful crash, he immediately recognizes the shards of ceramic on the floor. The color patterns, the shapes, the stupid smiley face that Sam drew with the last of the yellow paint…his favorite mug, smashed into four big pieces in front of a guy wearing a blue tie and a startled expression. Like he doesn’t even realize that he’s just broken some other person’s mug. When he looks up, his alarm melts smoothly into a sort of blank curiosity. Dean bites his lip.

“That was my mug,” he says, and then forces himself to take a deep, slow breath. His mug, sure, his mug from when Sammy was nine and in art class and they told them to work with clay. He’d brought the mug home and given it to Dean, even though (or as he told it) everyone else was giving theirs to their parents. Dean kneels down, and very carefully scoops up the largest piece. The piece with the smiley face on it.

“I am very sorry,” the man – the _culprit_ \- says. “I was reaching for the coffee grounds and I was not careful enough. Forgive me.”

“It’s okay.” Dean has to grit it out between clenched teeth. It’s not okay. He traces his finger around the edge of the smiley face. He hasn’t seen Sam in years. Not since he moved out to California. They talk, sometimes, but…through emails. The occasional phone call. Does he even look the same? Maybe, he thinks, this is a sign that he needs to let go of his little brother. Needs to accept that particular loss.

Not that he believes in signs or anything.

“It is not okay. It was your mug and I broke it.” The man has begun to very carefully gather up the remaining pieces, cradling each one in the palm of his hand, like they’re made of crystal instead of cheap clay that you can buy at any arts and crafts store. Dean can’t tell if that’s just how he usually is, though, or if he actually knows the significance the mug had. He honestly doesn’t care. It doesn’t change the fact that the mug is still broken.

“Don’t worry about it.” Dean thinks he’s probably too quick, too harsh in grabbing the pieces out of the guy’s hands. He’s got such wide blue eyes, and he looks as though Dean has just shouted at him, not like he’s just been a little rude. Grimacing to himself, Dean carries the broken mug to the communal trash and, after allowing himself a silent moment of mourning, dumps the whole thing into the bin. If he’s going to take this as a sign, then he’d damn well better do it right. No more moping after Sam, even though watching those stupid, painted ceramic shards disappear into the black folds of the garbage bag makes his heart feel like it’s about to break in two. He glances over his shoulder. Blue tie guy is still there, watching him, his expression inscrutable. He looks vaguely familiar. Is he one of Dean’s coworkers? He’s got roughly a hundred, and he knows so few of them…

“I’m sorry,” the guy says again, and Dean shakes his head, and then slowly walks out of the break room. He has a picture of Sam in his cubicle, and he thinks he’ll go and stare at it for a while. At least until it no longer feels like he’s about to throw up.

He manages to go three days without buying another mug, which means three days of being sleep deprived, but, despite his vow to let go of Sam, it seems as though all he can think about is his brother. What is he doing? Where does he live? He’s finished college by now, Dean’s sure of it, so does he have a job? A girlfriend? Jesus Christ, maybe even a wife and kids? They talk sometimes, sure, but how much does Sam _not_ tell him? That mug had been one of the most physical reminders he’d had of what his brother was like as a kid, and now it’s _gone_.

So, three days of caffeine deprivation, and he realizes that it has to stop as soon as he catches himself driving to the Turkey Hill in order to pick up one of those energy drink four-packs. He fucking _hates_ energy drinks, hates how they taste and how they make his throat feel like it’s on fire and covered with ants at the same time. He stops himself in somebody’s driveway, probably looking like a huge asshole, and he turns himself right around and heads to the Target instead. He walks into work the next day with a brand new mug, and feels almost like he’s accomplished something.

Except it’s been three days, and there, sitting on his desk like it belongs there, like a fucking gift from the Shitty Childhood fairy, is Dean’s mug. Stupid smiley face and weird paint and all.

He picks it up. Realizes that he’s still carrying his new mug (full of as much coffee as he could physically fit into it) and has to set that down before he can hold the mug without fear of accidentally dropping it. He can see, spreading like spider veins throughout the paint, where the main pieces were glued together, and where the slivers that were lost – the ones only small enough to have paint on them – have been replaced with new clay, new paint, meant to mimic the colors that were there before. Like Sam’s painting had some kind of pattern to it or something. He turns it in his hands; it feels solid, weighty. When he runs his fingers over where the cracks should be he just feels a new coat of glaze. If he doesn’t look closely, it’s almost as if it were never broken at all.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and though Dean starts, he’s also smart enough to set the newly repaired mug down before he whirls around. It’s the guy, from three days ago, the guy with the blue tie and the weirdly shocked expression, standing there in the entryway to Dean’s cubicle. He’s carrying an attaché case in one hand and his own cup of coffee in the other. He’s wearing a three piece suit. Dean glances down at his own clothes (khakis, dress shirt he bought for six bucks at the Salvation Army). He can’t think of anyone that he works with who even owns, let alone _uses_ , an attaché case.

“I see you found the mug.”

Dean nods, dumbly, still looking sort of halfway at that case. What’s in there? Important documents? The note that’s going to tell him he’s been fired for being rude to upper management? Because that’s what this guy is. He has to be. No one else around here carries attaché cases and wears _suits_.

“You said it was all right, but I did not believe you. So I…took the liberty of having the mug repaired. I hope it is to your satisfaction? The shop I normally go to is used to repairing crystal, not clay. I think, perhaps, I should have found someplace else.”

“No, no.” Dean swallows. Picks the mug up again and cradles it in his hands like he’s worried it will be taken away. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

“You seemed so upset. I thought it might have meaning to you, and…” The guy trails off. Behind him, a girl walking down the hallway freezes, and then dashes to his side.

“Mr. Novak! You’re supposed to be in the conference room in four minutes!”

Dean swallows again. Novak. He glances at the stationery on his desk: Novak & Adler Inc. This man isn’t just upper management…this man is Castiel Novak. This man _owns the fucking building_.

This man looks tired, with his suit and his case, like he’s still waiting for Dean’s approval. “Well. I am glad that I could fix it. It was my mistake.”

Then he turns around, with the clear intention of walking away and never speaking to Dean again, and Dean is just standing there like an asshole, holding his mug, and that girl (what’s her name, Becky?) is very carefully ushering Mr. Novak down the hallway towards the conference room, and…

…And Dean sticks his head out of his cubicle, shouting down the hall, “Mr. Novak!”

He honestly doesn’t expect the guy to turn around, but he does, with this patient, expectant expression on his face, and Dean realizes he’s still holding his mug, so he presses it against his chest as though he can absorb it into his body and hide it. Still, he calls out, “If you ever want to get coffee…you know, with the mugs…” He subsides into embarrassed silence.

Castiel is smiling. Becky, who must be his assistant, is tugging at his sleeve and making worried noises, but Castiel is smiling.

“I would like that,” he says, and then is whisked away down the hallway before Dean can say anything else.

He heads back to his desk, and, barely thinking about it, picks up the plain green mug he’d picked up at Target and pours his coffee into Sammy’s mug instead.

None of the cracks leak. Not a single one.


End file.
